


Keep Walking

by laurelofthestory



Category: Hollow Knight (Video Game)
Genre: Flashbacks, Gen, Memory Loss, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-06 10:02:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17343272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurelofthestory/pseuds/laurelofthestory
Summary: Quirrel finds that this last piece of Monomon's plan is the hardest thing he's ever had to do: keep walking, and don't look back.





	Keep Walking

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this since LAST YEAR. -canned laughter-
> 
> The idea's been jumping around in my head for a while and needed to come out, writing ability notwithstanding. Hopefully it's still enjoyable, as an ode to our favorite pillbug with a dad bod.

Quirrel wondered how he could’ve ever possibly wanted to become an adventurer. He had mistaken curiosity and a desire for knowledge as wanderlust when he’d been younger, but now that time had taken the edge off of his energy, he knew that he was much more comfortable sitting at a desk and reading than he would be scaling cliffs and fighting beasts and navigating strange, claustrophobic caverns. Not that the occasional bit of exploration wasn’t welcome and pleasant--it kept the senses and body sharp, and discovery was quite a thrill in itself. But he preferred experimentation, he’d found, finding new things in the world through study and thought rather than rugged outdoorsmanship.

And yet, standing at the base of the Howling Cliffs with the wind buffeting his shell and roaring in his ears...it seemed he’d gotten the more childish version of his wish.

Maybe he was only contemplating it because his limbs already ached from the climb down. Maybe some part of him believed that he could justify staying in one place, not moving, if only he kept  _thinking_ the whole time. But the pain from just a short trip made him wonder if this really was a good idea, whether he _should_ do this when he could very easily perish out there, whether her judgment had been sound in choosing him for this task. Better to stay in the Archives where he belonged and wait for the Teacher’s time to come, right? He could still turn back from here, scale the cliff and head back to rest in Dirtmouth before descending back to the canyon and pretending none of it had happened, right?

...Except, he knew he couldn’t.

_“The Vessel will fail.”_

_Quirrel glanced up from the papers scattered about his desk (the Archives probably had the largest supply of paper of anywhere in Hallownest outside of the Pale Court itself, as paper required wasps and wasps were notoriously unpleasant negotiators). He’d been nodding off, he realized, as he noticed he’d read the same sentence of the same lab report roughly ten times now without taking in a word. He didn’t think he’d slept since Monomon had left for the palace...yesterday?_

_“The Vessel will fail,” Monomon repeated, more urgently._

_Quirrel’s head jerked up--goodness, was he that tired?--and he turned his chair to face her. She was floating just outside the door to his office, as it was a bit too much to ask for her to fit inside. It was impossible to read her expression, but judging by the urgency in her voice and the restless way her tentacles shifted and curled underneath her, she was agitated._

_“What do you mean?”_

_“The King’s solution will only last temporarily. I saw the Vessel there at the palace, and there is a spark of life in its eyes. It will be corrupted. It will fail.”_

_Quirrel’s brow furrowed. “But should the King not know about this already? According to ancient text, the Wyrms were prescient beings.” His voice had dropped to a whisper--true names had power, which was why no one knew the Pale King’s, but it was said that even speaking of him could allow the King to hear you. Of course, as a bug of science, he knew such was ridiculous, but when you’d had superstitious gobbledygook shoved down your throat from childhood, you made habits that were hard to break._

_“I believe that He does know. He only refuses to admit it...”_

_And, of course, Monomon could not tell him. Even as one of the King’s closest advisors, to go against the King was to ask for death. No one would dare insinuate that the King was ever wrong._

_Quirrel tapped his claws together nervously. “So? What will you do?”_

_“I must become a part of the Vessel’s seal, as was previously agreed...”_

_Quirrel winced. He didn’t like to think of what was to come, even if Monomon herself seemed to have no problem with it._

_“...but knowing the Vessel will not hold...there will come a time when the seals must be broken. So that the Vessel can be spared, the infection perhaps recontained…”_

_His mouth went dry. He had no disillusions about Monomon waking from the sleep of the Dreamers, and yet the thought of such a fate befalling her…_

_Monomon’s voice held a note of sorrow and guilt when she spoke next._

_“...I will need you to do something for me.”_

If the Vessel really was to fail--and Quirrel had no doubt, as Monomon was quite certain of this--then the infection would spread through Hallownest again eventually. The safest place would be _outside_ of it.

She hadn’t divulged all the details of her plan to him; she liked to be cryptic until the very end, bless her. The other, discarded Vessels had been discussed, some of whom were known to have escaped the refuse pit that was the Abyss (Quirrel’s heart ached at the thought of it, even if she admonished him for thinking of them as more than they were). But she had not told him her planned outcome, and Quirrel guessed the results of this gamble were far more uncertain than he’d like.

But the one fact he knew was that he would not be safe in Hallownest. There was a chance he could perish out in the wilds, but a _chance_ of death was better than a  _guarantee_ of infection and madness. And yet...it was hard to think of leaving it all behind, knowing what would happen when he took the final steps past the little bubble of life that was Hallownest.

Monomon had said that what the King told all of them about the wastes past Hallownest was only half true. Yes, bugs who left would lose their memories, but no, they did not necessarily become feral, at least the strong-willed ones didn’t. He had enough confidence to believe he would be one of the lucky ones, else Monomon wouldn’t have asked this of him at all.

But relinquishing his memories, his life...it was a difficult thing to reconcile oneself with. Though, he had to admit--he'd already done several very difficult things in recent days.

_“We trust you have made all necessary preparations.”_

_“Yes, your Majesty.”_

_The King was surprisingly soft-spoken, but his voice commanded attention, echoing as it did off the walls of the chamber. For all but a select few (Monomon included), to look at the King’s brilliance directly was an unforgiveable slight, but that didn’t stop the few who saw him in person from trying to catch a glimpse._

_Quirrel had no such desire. He was standing on a platform beside the tank that Monomon was half-submerged in, filled with acid that was not harmful (and was even beneficial) to her kind. Over her upper body, she had donned the blue shawl that was required of those who would seal the vessel. It was small on her, barely covered her at all. It was strange seeing her wearing it instead of her usual greens. Quirrel tried not to look as distraught as he felt._

_It had taken a bit of negotiation on Monomon’s part to allow the tank to be used as her resting place rather than the customary ceremonial stone plinth--she’d dry out before the year was out, she argued. And while this_ was _true, the tank was also a part of their own plan, the one the King did not know about._

_A special variety of charged lumafly floated inert inside the tank, nearly invisible amidst the bubbling acid. Quirrel had paid less attention to the details of the whole thing than he probably should have, but he’d been paying less attention to most things as of late._

_What did trying to remember things matter, now, anyway?_

_Quirrel had helped in getting rid of all the drifting ooma and uoma who had made the place home, but Monomon had insisted he stay near, for which he was grateful. Aside from them, the only souls in the chamber (or indeed in the entire Archives) were the King himself, and two of his knights, Hegemol and Isma. All three were standing on a platform above the tank, the two knights taking places at their King’s sides and a ways back._

_The preparations had been made, and there was no more delaying it._

_“If you are prepared, then We shall begin.”_

_Monomon’s expression couldn’t be determined, but she lifted her head a bit towards the King’s voice, a tentacle or two twitching and leaving ripples in the acid. Quirrel’s mouth was a thin line. He feared what would happen if he let himself speak._

_“...Yes. I am ready, your Majesty.”_

_Monomon laid her head back, letting herself float in the acid. There was a rustling of the King’s cloak and Quirrel glanced up to watch him out of the corner of his eye as he seemed to glide forward towards the edge of the platform, staring down at Monomon with a critical gaze._

_From inside his cloak, he raised his arms into the air. Then he raised a second pair of arms, lower on his body, as he drew himself up, his cloak spreading out behind him like luminous wings. He began to chant, words in some ancient incomprehensible language that seemed to slip out of the mind the moment they were heard, that echoed about the chamber and filled it to bursting, the air crackling with power. Quirrel knew better than most that the Pale King was not truly godly, but in that moment, as he chanted and held out his arms and began to glow with a pale light, he could understand why this was the general assumption._

_Motes of flickering white light materialized in the air above the tank, drifting town towards Monomon like snow. Quirrel turned his gaze back to her to see that she’d taken the King’s preoccupation with the spell as an opportunity to raise her head a bit, watching him intently, and he couldn’t help but smile a bit--always analyzing, trying to learn, up until the very end. But as the white lights reached her, her head fell back into the acid, and the faint movement of her tentacles began to grow slower, more lethargic._

_Quirrel had to bite his tongue to keep from calling out for it to stop. This was what she’d wanted. This was what she’d agreed to. He couldn’t help leaning a bit further over the tank, trying to catch a glimpse of her behind her mask, make sure she was still awake…_

_It was difficult to hear over the King’s chanting, but Monomon gave a faint laugh._

_“...Take care of yourself out there...won’t you?” she murmured._

_Quirrel nodded, once. “I--I will, madam. I promise.”_

_She said nothing more, and a moment later, the room flashed with a single brilliant flare of light that forced Quirrel to screw his eyes shut. When he opened them again, he could only just see the etherial dreamcatcher patterns fading from the air, and a glowing Seal of Binding flickering along the length of Monomon’s sleeping form._

_That was it, then._

_He chanced a quick look back up at the King, who had returned to his previous position and had his chin tilted downwards, as if the spell had tired him._

_“It is done.” The King looked up, prompting Quirrel to quickly glance away. “The Vessel will be contained. Apprentice, the final preparations?”_

_“Yes, your Majesty.”_

_And Quirrel got to closing and filling the tank, all the while trying to swallow the lump in his throat and avoid looking at Monomon’s face._

_This was what she wanted._

_He was supposed to leave with the King and his knights, and the Archives would not be entered again, but...there was one last thing he had to do before slipping away._

His hand reached to the mask that rested on his forehead. It was one of the few things he took with him, along with his nail for protection and a pack containing a week’s worth of food and a single stone tablet on which were carved the words that would give him his purpose once his mind had been relinquished to the howling winds.

He took one step forward, and then another, kicking up dust under his feet, the wind buffeting his shell and trying to push him back as if encouraging him to give up and go home; back to the Archives where he belonged, back to the familiar green light and tubes filled with Monomon’s cryptic writings, back to uoma and ooma floating about, back to his desk in his office which had become so warm and comforting to him.

But...no. He had to remind himself that the Archives weren’t that place anymore. It was a tomb, now, a shrine. It would never be as it once was, not with her gone. He’d seen that firsthand.

_Of course, the ooma and uoma had moved back into the Archives almost immediately, and there were patchces of charged lumaflies that had managed to go under the radar still congregating in the halls. It had only been three days since Monomon had gone to sleep, and yet the place was already hung with a heavy silence, as if it too had been sleeping, but for infinitely longer._

_It sent a chill down Quirrel’s shell as he entered the chamber where Monomon was entombed; his steps echoed too loudly, the place was too big and empty. Every fiber of his being was screaming that this was terribly wrong, and yet he knew there was nothing he could do about it. Even were he willing to go against Monomon’s wishes, there was no way he could undo the Wyrm’s magic. Quirrel was a common, simple bug, not a speck of anything extraordinary in him. He had no chance against that powerful seal._

_But, he reminded himself, he_ could _do this. He moved to the tank that had been moved to a vertical position in the middle of the room, avoiding looking directly at her sleeping form. He pulled a lever, and the mechanisms sprung to life again, the tank slowly tilting to lie horizontally._

_He opened a valve to drain the excess acid from the tank before opening the top. And then...well, he had no choice but to look at her, didn’t he?_ _Quirrel steeled himself and propped himself over the edge of the tank. Her face was covered by her mask, but she seemed to be peaceful, only slight, instinctual movement from her tentacles breaking her stillness._

_He knew very little about the realm of dreams that the moths had once delved into, where Monomon was now, but...he hoped it wasn’t tremendously unpleasant._

_Acid-resistant gloves protected his hands as he reached into the tank and removed Monomon’s mask, though he turned his head away as it lifted off her face. The Teacher had never shown him her face, and he’d stopped asking a long time ago--she claimed it wasn't a very pleasant face, as she was quite far from an ordinary bug. Quirrel had always quietly wondered, doubting her claims, but even if she would never know if he looked...he wanted to leave her her privacy, even in eternal sleep._

_He set the mask off to the side and closed the tank, then set a pipe to fill it back up. Once this was done, he picked up the mask and stepped back, holding it up over his head._

_It began to glow and almost hum with energy; a strange magic he didn’t understand, but carrying a resonance the special lumaflies in the water reacted to. In a matter of seconds, it was if the upper half of Monomon had ceased to exist, scattered in glowing motes amongst the bubbles._

_If anyone wanted to break her seal, they’d need the part of her that was in the mask, now. Quirrel lowered it, finally taking the time to examine it. His heart felt heavy._

_Other than a few final preparations, he’d done all he could; all she’d asked of him. He’d be leaving soon, and then, all he’d have left to remember this place was the mask he held in his hands._

_The reality of it was setting in. He knelt down, overcome by the silence, and decided he would stay for a few more minutes._

Monomon’s seal was already locked up tight--and now, it was on Quirrel to bury the key until it was needed.

He pushed through the wind and continued along the plains, with nothing but the hum of vengeflies to keep him company. He kept his gaze directly forward, trying not to look too hard at the dead shells of other bugs scattered about, searching for one single thing.

He soon found it; a statue of a masked bug, and beside it, a stake planted into the ground, its top wrought into the shape of a seven-pointed crown.

The crown of a king. Marker of the wasteland’s beginning.

His last chance to turn back. But his decision had already been made.

Quirrel slowed to a stop beside the statue, peering out into the dusty beyond and thinking of the past. He’d had a good life, he supposed; yes, he’d seen hardship and tragedy, but he’d survived it all, hadn’t he? He’d managed to land himself a great career in the Archives. He’d gotten the chance to gain Monomon’s friendship. He’d learned so much, made something of himself, lived to a good age…

Quirrel chuckled, shaking his head. Look at him, writing himself an elegy. That sort of attitude had never gotten him anywhere. Monomon had always called him a stalwart, resilient sort, able to keep his head up when things looked grim. He could practically hear her chiding him for his melancholy, and reached up to pat the mask atop his head as if reassuring her that he knew he was being a bit silly.

Wasn’t this just a new adventure? The chance to learn everything all over again? To see the land beyond Hallownest that few bugs had glimpsed, and _return?_ He certainly hoped that sort of wonder and excitement wouldn’t leave him when his memory did, that he could keep himself going the same way he always had.

Quirrel pulled himself up straight and tall, hand on his hip, nail at his back, pack over his shoulder. This would be the hardest part, but he could do it. He trusted himself to be able to do it.

...It was still difficult to force himself to make the final steps, though. He glanced over his shoulder, back up at the cliff, at the faint lantern signifying the entrance to Dirtmouth.

“...I’ll be back, Madam.”

He’d count to ten. He’d count to ten, and then start walking, and wouldn’t look back anymore. He turned back to the marker, taking a deep breath.

“...One, two…”

As he counted, he focused on the feeling of being here, being whole, and looked back through all of his fondest memories, trying to cement the faces of friends, students, and colleagues in his mind one last time.

“...eight, nine…”

Ten seconds went by far too quickly, but he was satisfied with this last moment of recollection and knew if he didn't make himself do this, he'd lose his nerve. His legs tensed in preparation, and he squared his shoulders.

“...Ten.”

Quirrel began to walk.

As he passed the marker of Hallownest’s border, the wind seemed to pick up, and he reached up to hold his mask lower over his face to block it. Quirrel could swear he heard faint whispering in his ears; the King’s voice, a warning, an ultimatum, the hum of magic picked up by the mask. He faltered, but kept walking, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other, forcing himself forward. Quirrel’s head suddenly felt light, and the wind grew ever louder, ringing in his ears more and more until the ringing was all he could hear or think about, flooding his mind; he kept walking, one foot then the next, every instinct telling him to run and hide from the wind but no, he had to keep walking, he knew he had to keep walking, more than anything else he _knew,_ he didn’t know _why_ but he _had_ to, he _had_ to, he _had_ to…

He dropped to his knees, gasping for air, planting his hands under him to steady the spinning world. The ringing gradually subsided, leaving the whistling of the wind. Some part of him wanted to stay there on all fours, to skitter away and find a rock to hide under, someplace where it was dark and safe and there was no wind and he was less exposed to predators who could find him and snatch him up.

But...he couldn’t. He didn’t know much, but he knew he couldn’t simply run away and hide.

A weight on his shoulder snapped him out of his racing, panicked thoughts. He was wearing a little cloth pack, and it was kind of heavy. What purpose did this serve? He quickly took it off and sat down on the ground to examine it without the threat of his dizziness making him keel over, opening the pack and sticking both hands in. He rooted around inside until his claws found smooth stone, and he pulled out a tablet with neat writing.

Was it _his_ handwriting? He didn’t really know--he certainly couldn't recall writing it, but he couldn't recall much else, either. Besides, chiseled words didn’t always correspond to parchment handwriting, as carving stone took significantly more effort.

...Now, where had he learned that? He shook his head, trying to clear it, and focused on the words.

It was only a few lines, but they resonated with something deep inside him.

_Your name is Quirrel_  
_You must keep walking. You mustn’t look back_  
_Guard that mask with your life  
_ _You will know when it is time to return home_

...Quirrel, then. As fine a name as any, and it _felt_ correct. He was grateful to whoever had given this to him for helping him with his sudden lack of recollection, but that brought up more questions. Was he _supposed_ to lose his memory? Was this _planned?_ Where had he come from? What mask?

He reached up, wondering if maybe it was on his face--but instead, he found it on his head. He took it off and looked at it curiously. It was made of white, chitinous material, with four eye-holes carved into it, a large set at the bottom and a smaller set on top. For some reason, looking at it made him feel a strange combination of emotions. Grief, he thought, but fondness too. It was as if he was looking at a friend, even if he was certain he’d never seen the thing before.

He didn’t know whether or not it had a purpose, but he didn’t think he’d mind taking care of it. Not looking back, though...that was more of a challenge. There was so much of this situation he didn’t understand. Perhaps the answers to this conundrum laid in whatever was behind him? Surely, he hadn’t just _woken up_ out here in the wind. If he went back, maybe someone could explain what had happened.

...Except, he knew he couldn’t.

He didn’t know  _why,_ but he trusted the words on the tablet more than he trusted himself at the moment. A foolish thing, perhaps, but something told him these instructions were tremendously important, and he should absolutely follow them.

“‘You will know when it’s time to return home,’” he repeated, marveling at the unfamiliar sound of his own voice. If it was true, that implied that he was intended to go back to wherever he came from, and maybe he’d find the answers then. And he felt strongly as if it _was_ true, strange as it seemed.

Quirrel put the tablet back in his pack and slung it over his shoulder, then set the mask back atop his head. It certainly made a decent buffer from the wind, and as he looked out into the vast emptiness, something like excitement sparked inside of him. Who knew what might be out there? Certainly not him.

Maybe not looking back really was the best option. Looking back would prevent him from moving forward, and if he didn’t move forward, what marvels out there would stay forever undiscovered?

Quirrel nodded as if agreeing with his own internal decision. He stood straight and forced himself to keep walking, out into the unknown.

He did not look back, not even once.


End file.
